


your name on me

by orphan_account



Series: Soulmates AU [3]
Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:56:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22984579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Shaking legs lead him to the adjoined bathroom in the dingy motel room he takes cover in. And on his knees, he blinks back hot tears – what summoned them exactly, he doesn’t know – as he presses a palm over his shoulder. Fingers reaching desperately behind for those bold black letters which now he knows are imprinted just beneath the upper border of his right shoulder blade.That skin he saw, that is his.And it’s one name. Not three.He knows that now. And the weight of that information leaves him breathless for fourteen days.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark
Series: Soulmates AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1651798
Comments: 7
Kudos: 182





	1. Chapter 1

The first flash of memory is of a stripe of skin. Bold, black English alphabets, spelling out three different names; **_ANTHONY EDWARD STARK._**

On nights when the war in his mind takes its forefront, he pulls out that piece of imagery and forces himself to breathe.

Slowly, once he’s sure he’s shaken the last of HYDRA off his tail and is safely concealed within a mass of European public, he nudges the slit in his brain a little wider and he unfurls from the rush of pain that comes with it.

More memories bleeds out of that gap; of guns and boxing rings. Of little girl and a familiar faced man. Of _his_ finger tips across those three names and once he puts two and two together, he takes a sharp inhale.

Shaking legs lead him to the adjoined bathroom in the dingy motel room he takes cover in. And on his knees, he blinks back hot tears – what summoned them exactly, he doesn’t know – as he presses a palm over his shoulder. Fingers reaching desperately behind for those bold black letters which now he knows are imprinted just beneath the upper border of his right shoulder blade.

That skin he saw, that is _his_.

And it’s _one_ name. Not three.

He knows that _now_. And the weight of that information leaves him breathless for fourteen days.

On day fifteen, he opens the browser - after watching a teen click away in the internet café for hours on end - and he googles the name.

On day fifteen, he decides to keep the name to himself, safely tucked beneath the snagged shirt he wears for days on end and to never tell another soul about it.

Much less, the man to whom the name belongs to.

Because, said man looks happy on the screen in front of him. In relationship with a woman called Pepper Potts and he doesn’t know in precise word how he feels about it. But it’s _bad._

Then the world topples around him.

Suddenly he’s facing the man from his memory; a lot taller and heavier looking. But that face, he’ll know that face _anywhere_.

And there are guns ablaze. A tunnel falling behind him and then he’s on his knees on the very street he’d once prowled freely.

The last thing he remembers is a set of words, repeated over and over to wreck him from within.

The next thing he comes to is his left arm pinned between something heavy, ready to crush with a whisper of breath and his head a splitting disaster of pain.

A concoction of mess. Something unnatural and that which shouldn’t _be._

A horrible mix of old memories, fragments of new ones and reality which makes him wants to scream, waves of nausea crashing within him.

He can finally put the _right_ name to the man who confronts him; _Stevie,_ with piles of newspapers under his feet. Something about it is funny that his muscles contracts accordingly and his face splits into a smile. All on its own.

But the throbbing in his head doesn’t cease.

Not even a little through the whispered conversation Stevie holds in a corner with his pal.

_“If we call Tony…”_

_“No, he won’t believe us.”_

_“Even if he did…”_

_“Who knows if the Accords would let him help.”_

_“But it’s_ Tony _.”_

_“You’re gonna call him?”_

_“Even if the Accords wouldn’t let him help, he’ll at least divert their attention.”_

That’s how he found himself facing the man whose name is tattooed on his skin.

His _soulmate._

_“The rest of the winter soldiers are shot to death. A man named Zemo is behind this. Wanted to tear us apart from within. Saw a video of my parents getting murdered by your buddy here, not cool at all. Kind of hate you and Nat for not telling me but I can’t be mad to not knowing about seven wonders of the world when I could google it myself. So, you three.”_ The man points, the seemingly unending ramble of his slowing down as he points at Stevie, his pal and him, and he says,

_“You’re hopping on the jet with Nat and I and we’re going to Malibu where I’ll drop the four of you off while I go back to New York and try to clean this damned mess without getting strangled by Pepper in the process.”_

Pepper.

He knows that name.

It makes something twist horribly inside him - combined with that splitting headache he has going, he winces out in pain, walls crumbling all around him as he tries again to gather the rubbles, patch everything back together, futilely.

Two men reach for him at once.

One expected while the other, unexpected but not unwanted.

In fact, everything inside him purrs submissively as the man, Tony, or Anthony Edward Stark reaches for him. Snapping into splinters the second he catches himself and steps back.

_“Bucky?”_ Stevie crouches in front of him. _“You alright?”_

Bucky - because that’s _who_ he is - nods, eyes still fixed on nervous browns that a beat later, disappear behind a loud shade of orange. He blinks and drops his head down. Throat dry as he nods again, wishing Stevie would stop worrying about him. At least until they’re all safely out of here.

Three days later, he sees the man again.

Five days from then, he walks into an argument between Stevie and him. He doesn’t stay after he hears the man hiss, “They won’t trust him as long as the Winter Soldier is dormant in there, Cap and you _know that_.”

It’s a little over a month after, when he’s out under pelting rain when the man comes to find him.

_“I know you’re big on the cold and stuff, but getting drenched in rain is still a health hazard, you know.”_

He says as a way of greeting, leaving no space between them when he sits - thighs brushing with electric sparks - on the edge of the pool, legs dipping into chlorine tainted water up to his shins.

They sit in silence, listening to raindrops fall heavily into water, neither under any kind of shelters which makes him snort at the hypocrisy and he mumbles, _“Pot, kettle.”_

A delightful laugh bursts out his companion. Something that sends shivers up his stiff spine and he shudders, not from the cold but from the blooming emotion that overwhelms him entirely.

It’s unfair how much someone he doesn’t even know to have this much of an effect on him.

Strip him out of decades of control drilled into his bones. Bare him naked and raw with overflowing feelings for the whole world to see. An impossible feat that he does so _easily_.

It makes him want to hate the man, but he knows that’s a lie.

And the effect of the bond seems to go both ways. For the man opens his mouth with an audible breath, hesitates just a second and asks with palpable nerves,

_“You know we’re soulmates right?”_


	2. Chapter 2

Wordlessly, he tugs at the collar of his shirt and lean a little into Stark’s space. 

He anticipated the sharp inhale. But what he didn’t anticipate is the brush of trembling finger tips over his skin.

He whips his head so quickly to face the man that he hears the resonant crick of his stiff tendons grating at his veins.

Stark though, he looks like he’s in his own world. 

Eyes singularly focused in the way he always is when he’s in front of one of his creations. Or the blue light shows that dance to his rhythm.

_“The first thing I learnt about you was that you were dead.”_ Stark whispers into the space between them. _“It was a whirlwind from then forth.”_ He chuckles humourlessly, now surer in his contact with his imprinted name.

 _“Can’t say I wasn’t mad at you for dying on me. The only sure thing I got at being loved, and it was robbed even before the day I was born. Fuelled over a decade of angsty feel, that thought did. So when I got this,”_ He taps lightly over the blue glow that’s emitted from his chest, _“I thought_ finally _. Maybe this is the answer to all my questions.”_ Stark – Tony? Anthony? His soulmate. - smiles up at him.

It’s the still present light pressure over his shoulder that braves him to reach for that bright glow. 

The tip of his middle finger connecting first and he keeps his eyes fixed on his soulmate’s as he lets the rest follow – until half of that blue orb is beneath his fingers and he shudders.

_“I thought of removing your name.”_

The blunt confession rips something violently within him making him hunch over, and press harder at the blue light.

Stark’s fingers leave his skin then, and they circle his wrist instead. Giving a small pull. _“Sorry, I’m sensitive about the reactor.”_

He follows Stark’s lead, skin to skin, wrist within a set of fingers and he’s guided under the soaked fabric, into heat and more skin and when Stark lifts up the shirt, he can see his own name across the left side of his chest. 

Written in a swirl of bold cursive, in what must once have been his own handwriting.

Right over where the heart should be. 

He drags his thumb across **_James_ **then **_Buchanan_** and lastly **_Barnes_** ; rinse, repeat, over and over. The rest of his flesh hand, splayed beneath the imprint. 

Stark watches him in weighted silence, never intruding, simply letting him. Even when he covers **_James_** and presses over it gently. Staying there.  
  
Then he says, in the darkness that poured drizzle over both of them, _“I imagined calling you James. It was kind of a self-indulging masochism thing I did -_ Do _. Well, even now. Sometimes. Not so often,”_ He wavers, embarrassed with himself. 

Then he adds hurriedly, _“Didn’t mean to be creepy. Cause I legit thought you were dead up until the whole SHIELD fiasco and then – 43 years of being alone sort of convinced me to give you some space? I don’t know. I don’t know if I should have reached for you sooner but something told me that leaving you be until you find your own way – I mean, it wasn’t like I didn’t know if you were safe or not. I kept track. I mean – I just -,”_ He seems to tire after that.

Brown eyes wide and begging for him to understand.

Which doesn’t make sense because there was nothing wrong with what he did.

None at all.

_“Call me James.”_ He says after an aching beat of silence. 

Stark’s chest caves inward with a deep sigh under his hand and he covers his name with his palm securely before he looks up at the man, wet hem of t-shirt pooling around his wrist. 

_“Didn’t know who you even were until three months ago. Think you made the right call, leaving me on my own.”_

Stark nods shakily at that, Adams’ apple bobbing in his throat and there’s something in his eyes, like a request, before he reaches out.

He follows the hand. Follows it’s tentative course ‘til it reaches for his left hand.

Warm skin brushing against cold metal and he watches in gripping curiosity and fear as Stark touches what had been designed to be his _weapon_ with careful tenderness.

His entire body goes stock still. 

Afraid to move, terrified if he’ll lash out without control and cause harm to the one person who’s inexplicably tangled with delicate yet, unyielding intricacies with his life and soul - or what’s left of them, at least.

 _“This is alright right?”_ His soulmateasks. 

_“James?”_ He calls softly when he doesn’t receive an answer.

And maybe it’s the skin over his metal. Or maybe it’s the way his first name rolls out of his soulmate’s tongue.

Because, Stevie calls him _Bucky_. Something familiar and sure to him.

Everyone else calls him _Barnes._

Until now, he’s never heard what Stark refers to him as.

Now that he has, it summons him with the same power Zemo had when he recited those set of words. Perhaps even stronger than that.

Except _**James**_ makes him want to comply _willingly._

Go to his soulmate because he _wants_ to and stay with him because he _wants to be._

It also makes him yearn for the same power over Stark - Anthony, Tony, his _soulmate_. To make Stark come to him when he calls his name. Make him _want_ to stay. 

Keep him _forever._

To _love_ him unconditionally.

So, he asks, _“What do_ I _call you?”_ letting the metal plates slide and click into places as he twists his wrist and instinctively intertwines their fingers together.

 _“I always imagined… Anthony.”_ Comes the answer, whisper soft and hot on his cheek. Closer than the distant he counted a minute ago.

He looks away from their connected fingers to find his soulmate barely an inch from his face. 

Beads of water clinging to his skin. Dark eyelashes framing questioning eyes. 

The hand he has over his name - on his soulmate’s exposed chest - slides up north, over long stretch of warm skin, the rain soaked fabric catching sharply at the inside of his forearm but he persists until he has his fingers curled around a sharp jaw, thumbing over stubbles - his own blood thrilling in their vessels.

_“I want to be what we’re **meant** to be.”_ He murmurs, bringing their foreheads together.

Anthony, shivers in his hold. His flesh fingers around metal ones giving a shaky squeeze as he asks faintly, _“Soulmates?”_

And James nods. _“And everything, if you’ll have me.”_

Something seems to tickle Anthony about that answer as he breathes out a choked laughter. James cups his jaw and thumbs over his cheekbone fondly.

 _“I’ll **always** want to have you, James.” _Anthony says surely.

And the sigh that leaves James’ chest spoke for both of them as they clung to each other that night, dawn breaking in the sky above them as the rain drenched them from head to toe. But all the care they have in the world is only for one another. 

United, finally, after decades apart, just like it’s written in their fate. 


	3. Chapter 3

One thing keeps running in his mind; Stevie’s out on a mission.

He’s red in face, damp hair clinging all over and the sheet beneath him is soaked in sweat. It has barely been half an hour since he laid down, and he didn’t at all mean to sleep. Sleep hasn’t been on his mind. Not, when he can survive without it.

But his body betrayed and dragged him down over that one line that he dreaded and now he has decades of pain bursting out of his pores with a sludge for a mind.

And Stevie is out on a mission.

Clenching his fists in a feeble attempt to contain his shaking, he sits up.

His eyes immediately go to that blinking red light in the ceiling’s corner.

He’s been told that it’s some sort of surveillance camera. Not meant to spy but is there, dormant, to only intervene when something that necessitates intervention happens.

James wasn’t entirely convinced about it. But he’d just been invited to bunk in someone else’s home for free with free food and safety. He wasn’t entirely on the side to get fussy and complain about things.

Besides, he had Stevie.

Now in his absence, the paranoid is acting up. Suspicions climb higher walls and his skin is prickling with the need to rip that surveillance camera off its wall.

He’s sliding his fists beneath his thigh to keep himself from reaching for anything to encourage that vandalising thought when three steady knocks reverberated the bedroom door.

His senses shift focus, momentarily distracted by the red light overhead as they scream at what or who could be behind that door.

He bites hard on the inside of his lower lip, contemplating what to do – it’s his first time being without Stevie. Alone. When an entirely too familiar voice speaks up, “James, it’s me,” and all his senses go _limp_ , almost purring in the overwhelming comfort it brings.

His feet tremble when they touch the floor and he has to reach for support to get some kind of bearing.

Outside, Anthony’s voice rises with worry. “James?”

And he wants to say he’s fine. That he’s alright and it’s just that – Just that. He just, cannot stand up.

But how embarrassing is that.

Then, Anthony says, “I’m coming in, okay.” And the sheer thought of his soulmate catching him in this pathetic state sends him sinking down in the mattress. Wet sheets curling uncomfortably around his palms as he supports himself upright and he bites down an ashamed groan.

What is wrong with him?

“Hey. Hey? Look at me.”

Brown eyes wide and earnest, demanding for his attention. And James gives. Unfractured. Because Anthony deserves everything, _whole_.

“How’re you feeling?” He asks. His too rough fingers skating across James’ stubble covered jaw and cheek as he cups his face in place and looks up at him. At only him. From his place, with his knees on his floor – when he should be tall. When James should be the one grovelling at his feet, because Anthony deserves more.

Because James isn’t whole.

He’s fragments of broken something. One of two pieces of them and he can never attached only those two and pretend to be complete.

He can _never_ be complete.

That’s the sickening truth of his story.

But for Anthony, his soulmate, he grunts. Something akin to a positive response, to indicate that he’s alright.

Since his tongue is still stuck on the roof of his mouth from the shame that rattles his core and _now_ he can’t even look into Anthony’s eyes.

The hands around his face doesn’t waver. The grip remains grounding yet gentle as the skin under his eyes prickle from looping circles being rubbed around it.

“Wanna watch a movie with me?”

“I remember my mother’s hot chocolate recipe and I maybe a few years too rusty but I’ll make it good.” Anthony whispers.

Their foreheads touching and James willingly leans into it. A short graze of skin on skin – up and down – is all the answer that he can manage for the question.

“I think we have all the ingredients for it…,” Anthony muses as they ride the elevator together. James silent by his side, but sufficiently calmed by the contact of their fingers intertwined together.

“You have everything you need, boss.” The blinking red light quips and James shoots it a suspicious look.

At his side, Tony hums in satisfaction, giving a tiny squeeze to James’ hand. “Thanks, baby girl.” He smiles upwards, eyes closed in serenity which puts a little smile on James’ face.

He never understood the red light. He knows that it’s capable of thinking by itself. A form of intelligence. An artificial one, according to Stevie.

Which, his soulmate brought to life. Something unfeasible at that time, but he proved everyone wrong. It makes James swell in pride.

But it doesn’t make him explicitly trust the product. Even if it was Anthony’s creation, James struggles with trusting in general and it’s simply, tough. What more when he cannot even begin to understand how it functions.

However, as long as it keeps making Anthony smile, James thinks, he can start somewhere with the trust.

In the communal floor, Anthony sets to work in the kitchen while James resists the urge to hang by the hem of his shirt and follow every footstep and sits at the dining table.

He lets his eyes follow instead.

From the stretch and flex and riding of material up tanned skin.

He watches Anthony work the stove, jittery on his feet as he hums under his breath and measures and mixes all the ingredients he gathered on the counter.

James lets his head fall on the table, cushioning it with the fold of his arms as his eyes slide half close. “I’m sorry about killing your parents.” He relieves that’s been on his mind for so long.

Something clatters onto the floor as Anthony comes to a sudden halt. A whisper of curse fleeting through the air before he picks up the utensil and runs it under the water, rinsing.

“I remember it without the weight of emotion. I’m not sure about how I exactly feel about it but I’m sorry.” He frowns at the stiffening of Anthony’s back. “I’m sure once I’ve figured out all the emotions and stuffs, I’ll be more sorry but for now -,”

“Doesn’t matter.” Anthony turns. The tight smiles on his face failing to match the wild haggardness in his sunken eyes.

James clenches his fists, the discomfort of his soulmate bearing down on his shoulders as he lifts his head up, straightening up in his seat. “It looks like it does.”

The utensil in Anthony’s grasp slips again and lands with another loud clang. Anthony closes his eyes, breathing out another swear word.

His entire body begins to tremble then. Which is probably why James stands up in autopilot, closing in to his soulmate, seeking and wanting to give comfort.

“I’m sorry.” He says, cupping Anthony’s cheeks and bringing their foreheads together. Inhaling the air in between their space.

He’s not sure what he’s apologizing for now.

Is it for his parents’ death or for putting Anthony in this tortured position?

He doesn’t know.

Either way, “I’m sorry.” He murmurs, stroking the apple of Anthony’s cheeks. Round and round in small circles, wishing his soulmate will let him in. Let him take care of him.

Make him feel better.

The front of his shirt is fisted and he’s pulled in closer as a small shudder of exhale fans across James’ face. Their cheeks meet as Anthony nuzzles into him. “I’m okay” He whispers back shakily. Circling James’ wrist with his fingers and rubbing at its pulse point with his thumb. “We’re okay. We’ll move on.” He nods against James, breath stuttering when he inhales and exhales.

It is then when something hisses and sizzles in the background and at once, Anthony pushes away in alarm.

“Shit. Shit. Shit. It’s boiling. Shit!”

James struggles a little to wrap his head around the sudden shove and panic. His fist clenching and unclenching at his sides minutely until a warm brush of skin skids pass, spreading calm through his artificial nerves.

Anthony’s still dancing around with nervous energy as he stirs the pot on the counter. Free hand reaching for the scattered ingredients and he mumbles consistently under his breath.

But with each millisecond pause in between cleaning and salvaging the beverage, he reaches out for James. Allowing tiny brushes of skin against metal and sometimes lingering, even in his distraction.

James heart swells dangerously in his chest.

-

They’re curled up on the couch after. When the hot chocolate is done and the television is playing something that Anthony thought James will find enjoyable but, all James can think about is the weight over half of his left side where his soulmate is curled into a ball.

“I forgot how bad the CGI was in the 90s” he murmurs. Completely unaware of what he’s doing to James.

Just by snuggling with his metal arm. Something that has been installed as a weapon for the winter soldier, to aid with his mission; in murders. And here he is – a ball of light, James’ personal haven - wrapped warm and soft around it like he doesn’t even care about the mass of sin lodged in between each silver plate.

James wants to shake him off. Shift him so he’s on the right. Not on the wrong side.

For Anthony is a whisper of purity wrapped around hell and that is not proper at all.

But hells likes the taste of heaven.

For all the cold that surrounds the metal, it thrives from the warmth and heat that Anthony willingly gives and James – He, aches for it.

It’s wrong, but it feels so right that he can’t keep his eyes and mind off of his soulmate.

“You don’t mind the arm?” He whispers over dark curls, lips brushing over soft strands which he leans into until his mouth’s pressed over them.

Anthony hums, leaning into him in return. “It’s a part of you.” He says easily. Like he’s never ever been bothered by it. Even once.

James struggles to breathe. “What are you doing to me?” He murmurs his thought out aloud, unbeknownst to himself.

The chatter from the television comes to a sudden stop. Two vertical line appearing stark white at the top left corner when James looks up. “What do you want me to do you?” Anthony asks, whisper soft, looking up at him.

James’ throat spasms shut, then opens and he swallows audibly. “Everything.” He breathes out honestly. Flesh fingers reaching to brush away the curls fallen over Anthony’s forehead and he follows his gut, pressing a kiss over the stretch of exposed skin.

Anthony shudders in his hold. “If I ask you out for dates?”

“I’ll say yes.”

“If I ask you to kiss me…,”

“I’ll say yes.” James answers without a hesitation.

Anthony closes his eyes and breathes. When he blinks open, a new kind of vulnerability is etched along those golden specks littered across his big brown eyes. “And if I ask you to stay.” He asks softly.

James tips his head up, holding his gaze, “Then I’ll stay.” He whispers faithfully. “But I can’t do all the others when you have Ms Potts.” He shakes his head, heart aching in his chest. “Not when you’re both engaged. It’s wrong.”

“What?” Anthony jerks away, peeling himself off of James’ side without warnings. “I’m not engaged –,” He protests before realization dawns upon him. “Have you been reading the gossip columns, James?” He squints at him.

“It was on the news.” James frowns at the where he’s still connected with Anthony; his left arm.

Anthony sinks back with a groan, head tipping backwards into James’ shoulder, his body back to pinning half of James’ like it had been before and James allows himself to breathe again, in relief at the weight of his soulmate.

Anthony curls all his metal fingers into a fist. “They lie.” He says, uncurling the trigger finger. “Rule number one on living in this century, snowflake, is to never trust the media as it is.” His thumb runs along James’ index absently.

James spreads out all his fingers and link them with his soulmates’. Half of him feeling nauseated looking at the way wrong envelopes all the rights in the world; evil intertwined with goodness, while the other half of him cannot help but be enthralled by it.

Anthony curls further into him, head tucking beneath James’ chin as he squeezes James’ hand, smiling dopily when he looks up at him. James stutters, “Wh- What’s the second rule?” He asks, drinking in their proximity – something warm coiling deep within his lower belly.

“The second rule -,” Anthony inhales shakily, his eyes fleeting downwards and James realizes where he’s looking at, his own gaze following Anthony’s lead, dropping to pink lips longingly. “The second rule,” Anthony repeats, much closer than he’s been before.

Too close. And James gives in to the thrill of wants pounding inside him, ducking his head, just a smidge away and –

“The second rule is you kiss me.” Anthony whispers, snapping the final thread between them. Blinking widely when he pulls back after just a peck, much to James’ frustration.

So he drops all his worries and doubts and presses his mouth over Anthony’s. Soft and slow at first then increasingly coaxing until they part and he swipes a hot tongue into the space between his soulmate’s mouth, licking in, getting a taste of him – just a tease, before he pulls away, smirking when Anthony follows, “And you kiss me back.” He brushes a thumb over the swell of Anthony’s bottom lip.

To his delight, his soulmate snorts, before giving into a fit of giggles, leaning into him – spreading warmth and happiness all over and James smiles endlessly, pressing his lips over the mess of curls tucked beneath his chin.

He’s _wrong_. He knows. He can _never_ be complete. He’s aware.

But he has a soulmate who wants him for him – the way he is; broken and scared and covered in sins.

A soulmate who wants him to _stay_. And stay, James will. Until Anthony throws him away, James will stick by him, give him everything he has and makes sure nothing else matters over him.


End file.
